


It's In Your Blood

by ind1go_ink



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF, Team Fortress 2
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Magic, Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, Child Abandonment, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Exhibitionism, Explicit Language, F/M, Gen, Gender or Sex Swap, Genetic Disorders & Abnormalities, Genetic Engineering, M/M, Magic Revealed, Monsters, Mutation, Mutilation, No Relationships as yet but they will come, Only for a few characters, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Self-Discovery, Self-Mutilation, Slow Build, Voyeurism, explicit violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-03-31 16:40:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3985282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ind1go_ink/pseuds/ind1go_ink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For years now, the war has waged on. A never-ending battle that always ended the same, at a dead stop. In a dead heat every month. Every year. But with an infusion of age-halting chemicals and the mysterious Respawn system, the fighters would live on for as long as they were needed by the voice over the speakers, as long as they wanted. Maybe even forever?</p><p>One boy sets out to find out just what makes them different from the rest, and what he discovers is more terrible than he could ever imagine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Gravel Wars

**Author's Note:**

> Alrighty. This is a simple intro to Team Fortress 2 for those who haven't played it before, or if they have but have no idea about the background to the game (that was developed AFTER the game came out. Neat, huh?). Some of the characters are gender-bent, in terms of the TF2 version of the characters, and a lot of introductions to other versions of the TF2 characters will be present further on in the story. I've changed around some things in the TF2 universe to fit the RT employees. Check the tags, tell me if you want more. I might post up a variety of works that inspired this one too. We'll see!

## 1822

###  Mann Family

The Mann family's backstory begins in the 19th century with the wealthy Englishman Zepheniah Man[n](https://wiki.teamfortress.com/wiki/Non-player_characters#Zepheniah_Mann). Zepheniah Mann was the owner and proprietor of Mann & Sons Munitions Concerns – which also went by the name of Zepheniah Mann & Sons Co., but is better known by the name of Mann Co.. His wife, Bette, gave birth to three sons in September 2nd of 1822; Redmond, Blutarch and Gray, but died in childbirth. Though Redmond and Blutarch were perfectly normal, Gray was underweight, and had learned to talk inside the womb. Zepheniah ordered the baby to be smothered, but he was abducted by an eagle during the "Great Eagle Scourge of 1822." The remaining Mann brothers grew up without knowledge of their missing brother.

Gray was well cared for by his eagle abductor. He was fed grubs and mice, kept warm under her breast and accepted by her children. Gray grew strong under the eagle's care and when he was strong enough he killed her and her children and ate them all before crawling back to civilization.

## 1850

###  Zepheniah's Will

Around 1850, Zepheniah traveled to the United States with Redmond and Blutarch, to expand the munitions business. When they arrived in Texas, they discovered the gravel pits and dust bowls that he had purchased were useless; in addition, Zepheniah had contracted numerous illnesses in his old age. With his last will and testament, Zepheniah set an unstoppable war in motion by leaving half of his land to each of his sons – for them to fight over for the rest of their lives. He also left Elizabeth the "miracle gravel" cache that he discovered on a trip to "Terra Australis". According to him, Gray had resurfaced the year before and wanted to blackmail him for it, so he entrusted Elizabeth with it, to keep it secret and safe.

Early Years

Blutarch had his crack mercenary team set and was eager to claim his land. However, Redmond had assembled his own team of mercenaries and was making similar plans to gain control of his brother's land. The RED and BLU teams proceeded to enter into a massive stalemate as they attempted to destroy each other and take the land from their respective Mann sibling.

## 1890

###  A Loose Canon

Forty years later, Redmond and Blutarch were still engaged in their unwinnable war.

As Blutarch neared death from old age, he called in an expert craftsman named Radigan Conagher to construct for him a machine that would allow him to live on, to "make [him] a monster", by artificially extending his life. Radigan agreed.

Upon returning to his store that evening, Radigan found a stranger who had already made her way past his locked door. Knowing she couldn't convince Radigan to change his mind about building Blutarch's life extender, this stranger asked Radigan to build Redmond a machine as well. As payment, she gave him a hundred pounds of Australium – a powerful element found only in Australia which had caused the nation of unintelligent savages to become extremely intelligent and develop such technological marvels as teleportation and cloaking techniques.

Radigan agreed and became super-intelligent with the Australium. He went on to develop life extending machines for Redmond, Blutarch, and one for Elizabeth.

## 1968

###  Gravel Wars

During the Summer of 1968, nine individuals - the Scout, the Soldier, the Pyro, the Demoman, the Heavy Weapons Guy, the Engineer, the Medic, the Sniper, and the Spy - were recruited by Reliable Excavation & Demolition (RED) and Builders League United (BLU) to continue Redmond and Blutarch's neverending war to seize the land left to them by their deceased father.

Michael 'Burnie' Burns, a descendant of Elizabeth, acts as the overseer of the large-scale battles fought amongst these nine mercenaries.

\---

There were shifts of men, split into eighteen, and whittled down to two teams of nine, all rotating through the harsh terrains where they would fight to a dead stop every day. Death wasn’t important within the boundaries of the base, and the decayed husks of buildings they fought in. The only thing that mattered was the leader board at the end of the day, because that determined the amount of money that would go into their pockets at the end of the month.

He did it for his sweet Ma. Every month’s pay check would go back home within the day he’d received it. He was the youngest, the runner and Scout of the group, a New Yorker at heart, Puerto Rican by genes, shy at first, but he developed quickly into a cocky shit-talker with a penchant for rubbing his skills in his team mates faces. His baseball cap never left his head, glasses perched on his nose when he wasn't in the thick of battle. His bats were all well-used but oiled with care, and fervently cleaned, especially after he’d ended a round by bashing a BLU’s head in. His sawed-off shotgun was handled with a little less care, scratches and dents peppering the barrel of the gun, the butt worn with use. His pistol was kept in relatively good condition, enough that it would work nine times out of ten. He kept his hands wrapped up tight, to protect against the scrape of the bat when he handled it, and the fierce winds that blew through his main rotation;

Badlands - called that for the expanse of desert that seemed to never end.

Fastlane - much like Badlands with its’ stretches of golden sand that blew up dust storms that stung the eyes and bit into exposed skin.

Freight - the transportation hub of the desert network, trains rumbling through the stations at all hours, where the supply drops would be carted to the base by one of the older team mates when they were around, or if there was a crate of alcohol, Geoff.

The last rotation was Gullywash, the most densely populated of the locations, buildings of all kinds looming between the two opposing bases, all hauntingly empty so that when Ray would dart through them, his skin would shiver at the loneliness that pervaded the place.

His shirt was reminiscent of the late 50s style, sleeves rolled up to his shoulders, tucked into high-waisted dickies, the ends folded around his calves, fed into by knee-high socks. Dogtags hung loosely around his neck, memories from his mother and his last girlfriend, the engravings etched into the metal were worn from rubbing against the acidic tint of his skin.

\---

The man from Texas with a calm southern accent that belied his nature, and tufts of hair floating over his eyes, covered with shining spectacles did it for the chance it gave him to work on his rather specialised ideas about technology. The resident Engineer slash technological genius had been in the desert network for more years than he’d say, settling into each rotation with enough ease that it was purported that his room in each base had it’s own design and details. It was also reported that he’d loped his own hand off to test his theory of having a working mechanical prosthetic hand. It seemed to garner some immense respect, tinged with fear, from his other team mates. He was soft-spoken but easygoing, cheerful and friendly, roused only into a temper if his workshop was tampered with. Each piece of machinery carried a piece of himself with it, his shotgun was pristine. A wrangler was favoured over his pistol, a machine used to manually control the sentry he would set up on the battlefield. His sentry was a fearsome piece of technology, rocket launchers placed atop rapid-fire machine guns that spat bullets into bodies at a terrifying pace. His pda, and his machine destroyer, were both at his side at all times during battle, clipped onto the sides of his waist, looped through belt buckles. Overalls were his choice of wear, a flannel under shirt with a simple white tank beneath, heavy boots encased his feet, and a hard hat perched on the crown of his head.

\---

Lindsay - her reasons were unknown, except for when Kerry had told the rest of the team in his hushed voice that she had said her medical licence had been revoked, so she’d come to TF Industries. She, too, hailed from Texas, a close friend of the Engineer’s. All the team mates bar Jack had been wary of the maniacal team doctor, who had an avid interest in tampering with their bodies, with consent or without. She was always the picture perfect form of clinical cleanliness, her hair tied into a bun, open coat buttoned from the waist up, the open ends hanging around her calves, army boots polished so much you could see your face in them, suspenders strapped across her torso, holding a pair of simply cut dark cotton trousers that fed into her boots in place. Perched on her shoulder at almost all times, except during battle, was Archimedes, her favourite of a herd of mewling multi-coloured cats that lived in her clinic on base. Her syringe gun, with its’ hypodermic syringes filled with a nasty cocktail of poisons and flesh-eating acids struck cold into the hearts of all her opponents on the battlefield, a manic grin would light her face even as she would shoot at her enemies that were out of range. Closer to home was her bone saw, the jagged edges sharpened to a pinpoint so fine that even when it sliced through flesh, they wouldn’t feel it till the blood had drained from their body and they were on the cusp of death, and the last thing they would see was that toothy smile bearing down on them as she muttered happily to herself. She also had her medigun, a hulking device that shot healing rays from the spout, infusing her team mates in a ruddy glow, filling the machine strapped to her back with the ubercharge that she had calibrated to work with each of her team members hearts, a small machine, courtesy of Jack, clipped into the valves of their hearts so that when the machine chirruped, she would unleash a torrent of fiery electrical energy, and whichever team mate she was healing at that crucial moment, would become invulnerable. She stuck close to Kerry generally, as the slow-moving man was an easy target, but she would dart away to fire small beams at her team when they called for help.

\---

The taciturn Georgian man that served as the RED Sniper of the desert route had murmured that it was none of his team’s business _what_ he was doing there, and that had been that. Case closed, under lock and key. He was a loner, living away from the other’s - off-base, in a snug campervan that was parked in one of the unused lots just outside the base. The man was inconversible at worst, downright jeering at best. What words did come from his mouth were earthy pearls of worldly wisdom, with the occasional cuss word thrown in for good measure. He was unapproachable to all except Ray and Gavin, whom he took a gruff liking to. The mouthy runt of the team tended to be a good distraction, and the finesse of the British lad piqued his curiosity more than he liked to admit, with the man needling at him on a constant basis if he wasn’t too careful about how he treated him. Usually a tip of his slouch hat over his eyes would send the spy on his way. Along with his slouch hat, that he hardly ever took off, sunglasses shielded his warm hazel eyes from the harsh desert sun, was a long-sleeved open-collared shirt was worn over a white polo with the exterior shirt’s sleeves rolled up to his elbow, a driving glove and watch adorned his left hand and wrist, protecting the soft flesh of his palm from any extra callous’, long simplistic brown trousers accompanying a thick Swanndri vest that hung about his frame. His rifle was slung over his shoulder at most times, even off the battlefield, and he would be seen cleaning the gun with the utmost of care, the blade of his Kukri gleaming dully against the sun’s rays as it dangled from his belt loop. His kukri never left his side, even when he slept, keeping the large bush-cutting knife under his pillow. His sub-machine gun, a tiny gun that spattered bullets faster than Ryan could move was generally left to it’s own devices, hanging from his belt loop till he really needed it.

\---

Michael stated that he missed the predictability of fighting, using his fists instead of words to convey his meaning. He bonded with Ray more than anyone, the closeness of their homelands - he from New Jersey, Ray from new York made Michael display special kindness to the runner that lacked when he interacted with anyone other than Lindsay. A helmet adorned fiery red locks that curled in on themselves so that they almost formed ringlets when he took his helmet off. The brim shielded his eyes from the blast of his rocket launcher, hiding the fiercely gleeful orbs when he went into battle, hollering wildly at the top of his lungs for the joy of it. A thick jacket covered most of his torso, a belt settled snugly at his waist while the jacket was left loose over black khaki pants, tucked into clunky gunboats, polished with same vigour as Lindsay’s. He took great pride in his weapons, the rocket launcher being his prized possession, cleaned every day and every nook and cranny checked for faulty wiring or the possibility of a misfire. His shotgun, however, was badly in need of repairs, the barrel bent and smoothed down so much that the metal looked as though it would crumble under a rough hand, duct tape was sealed around the butt of the gun, to steady his grip further, but mainly to hold it in place. His shovel was industrial grade, thick metal curved into a deadly spike leading on from a sleek wooden limb, the handle of his shovel resting neatly between practised fingers as he would spin it for an attack.

\---

Gavin’s reasons, too, were shrouded with mystery as much as Ryan’s were. Though he was far more snide and biting about it, each needle of his past being revealed making the Brit snap at his team mates, olive skin beneath his mask growing flushed with anger, pushed to the point where he could only squawk indignantly when his fellow team mates erupted into laughter at the sounds he made. He was quick to regain his composure though, needling each team member individually, loosing seemingly offhand comments about their background that only they could know which would not only drive them each into a frenzy of panic, but push them far from him, far enough that he could calmly do his work - which entailed far more than simply slipping into battle to inconvenience the enemy - without the threat of being discovered. The Brit appeared to be quite a lady charmer too, often receiving letters from various past lovers, mostly claiming they’d murder him in his sheets, but it all glanced off his back like water from a duck’s feathers. His mask hid his face at all times, even distorted his features slightly so he was less recognisable. He wore a sharply pressed pinstripe suit at all times, the blazer only leaving his shoulders when severely distressed or off of the battlefield. Beneath the blazer, he wore a trim plain white dress shirt, with a vest of matching pinstripes over it, a tie at his neck, the stripes matching his suit, an emblem pinned to the bottom of the thin silk. His thick flayed trousers were pressed to points, disguising the length and size of his legs, leading to black shoes of fine Italian leather, the name undoubtedly unpronounceable. His Ambassador revolver was tucked into his jacket at all times, the muzzle and barrel covered in stylish engravings, the butt made of dark mahogany, encased in what looked like silver. His most trusted weapon, though, was his balisong, the dark blade carved wickedly with intricate designs, the ebony carved handle smooth with use, but looking no less worn than any of the Spy’s other weapons. His disguise kit was discreetly held in a non-visible inner vest pocket, holding some of the world’s finest cigarettes known to mankind, and of course his disguises, tailored to his build and genetic code alone. Gavin didn’t smoke often, but when he was overly stressed, he took to it with a fervour, each burning lungful making him bitterly regret ever starting in the first place. His cloaking watch was on his wrist at all times, the display of time not functional, but he would still glance at it in times of boredom, reminding himself that he was indeed stuck in a timeless place.

\---

Geoff was incoherent most of the time. His reasons for being there, when they were finally dragged from the bubbling stupor of his mind, went along the lines of his family needed him to be there, the money was too good to pass up on and a muttered sentiment about his ‘Dear old mum.’ before he’d collapsed into a drink-fuelled sleep. When drunk, Geoff was a happy, rowdy, full-of-life, bursting at the seams kind of man, always ready to jump into a fight without a moment's notice. However, when sober, he was a force to be reckoned with, calculating and grotesquely lucid. He could see into the hearts of his team members in that state, and it never found him in a good mood. Better to stay off his rocker. He was not an alcoholic by any means, more of an experienced drinker, though he would usually regret the immediacy with which he would pour himself a drink the moment he woke up. Tattoos covered his arms, whorls of patterns and eye-watering shapes that bent the mind to its will, lead into a thick bomber jacket. He wore a full body suit most times, only his face uncovered as he glared out into the battlefield, but on base he would stride around in a plain white tank, lean muscles showing through the baggy cotton, his legs encased in washed out bell-bottom jeans with a high waisted brown belt to accompany it. His weapons were like children to him, his grenade launcher being the first thing he would dismantle completely and clean scrupulously, pouring over each minor detail without fail. His sticky bomb launcher would receive the same treatment afterwards. His usual bottle of booze he would take into combat as well, using the empty glass - once he’d chugged it down - to give them a blow to the head, and with the remains of the shattered glass in his hands, scalp his enemies with slurring roars that would echo through the fighting grounds.

\---

Pyro was an enigma altogether, they existed in their own little world, devoid of reality altogether. At first the rest of the team had been nervous of the pyromaniac, bar Lindsay and Gavin simply because they both knew what lay behind the mask, but then the team had been terrified of them when they'd seen the incredible amount of chaos they created. A gas mask shielded their face from harm, and from ever being revealed, their voice distorted and muffled through the masks filters so that it was an unrecognisable lilt when it came, gurgled mumbles coming out at best. The rest of the team was never certain if they ever took the mask off, much less their body suit. They appeared to be as tall as Ryan, possibly slender, though the thick rubber of the full body suit they wore disguised their build surprisingly well. They smelt of singed rubber and medical spray on a near constant basis. They were harmless enough off-field, giving little trinkets and childish drawings to each of their team mates, clapping with glee whenever Jack fired up his barbecue for the weekly grill up on Fridays, celebrating the end of a working week.

\---

Kerry was by far the largest man on the team, the size of his bulk had his team members quietly apprehensive of the soft-spoken man at all times. He was intelligent, calm, and spoke only when it was needed. His slow calculated movements, even off the battlefield, made him appear to be the rock that everyone else caught on in times of chaos. He was caring, in a complacent way, that offered small comforts to the rest of the team that they never acknowledged. On the field, however, he turned into a beast, all brightly glaring eyes and snarling mouth, his loud booming laugh echoing off the walls as he would spit endless bullets into his opponents. That was when he became something other than a stoic man, his insults spitting at not only his opponents, but as his team as well. He became degrading, a husk of a man fuelled by blood lust and a perverse joy in the battle, picking on weak points of his team’s skill with precision, but never throwing them off. Afterwards he would usually offer small amounts of advice to account for the ridicule he would put them through on the field. His mini-gun, affectionately nicknamed Ruby, was his pride and joy, and if anyone dared lay a finger on the barrel, he’d have them in a chokehold in a second, eyes glowing with painful intensity as he would mutter various, inventive ways of killing the person the next time they touched it into the petrified person’s ear. His shotgun was taken care of with equal ferocity, though less expensive to operate, the affection that was usually reserved for family members was lavished onto his weapons. His boxing gloves, were less than usual, large sharpened claws designed specially for ripping through flesh, hung from a back of tough knotted fur, reaching up his forearms, red lines of cloth wrapping under his knuckles and around the thumb to hold it in place, spiralling up to his elbow. He wore a simple red v-neck shirt that cut off around his biceps, the muscle of his body straining against the taut fabric, tucked into cargo pants that hung low over enormous army boots, a vest tucked snugly over his shoulders, holding the many rounds of ammunition that slung around his shoulder, resting against his hip. Gloves were fitted over large meaty hands when he wasn’t wearing his punching gloves, clips on his belt held rounds of ammunition, and a slim book on Japanese cartoonism, of which he was an avid reader off the field.


	2. Early Waking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's shorter than what I'd normally write, but exams. Barf. Relationships will come! So will the fighting!

The dawn crept in through the open sliver of curtains with reaching, hesitant fingers, the first tendrils of warmth brushing Ray's face, caressing his lids, lulling him into consciousness. He groaned, stretching languidly, his muscles protesting as they woke up.

Then his door burst open, a wailing siren shattering his slow, peaceful waking, jolting him out of bed with a startled cry.

‘Get UP, SON,’ Michael’s voice boomed through Ray’s tiny room, echoing out into the corridor, the older man grabbing the younger by the scruff of his neck and hauling him upright, giving him a hearty pat on the back. ‘It’s war time.’ He growled out, tipping his helmet back so Ray could see the flush to his cheeks and the excitement flaring in his eyes. Ray merely glanced at the clock on the wall, noting the shattered glass plating covering the ticking hands.

It was verging on six in the morning, and he flicked his gaze back to the Soldier, rubbing a hand through his tousled hair.

‘Michael, it’s six in the fuckin’ morning.’ He groused, spinning the man on his heels and shoving him out the door. ‘We got two hours to get ready. Go back to sleep, you moron.’ He added, slamming the door in the man’s face before flopping face-first into his bed, groaning into the thin mattress. He curled the blankets around himself, burying his face in the sheets that smelt of home.

He’d only been here a week, not yet ripe enough for a full day on the field, still going through what on-base duties he had, what he could and couldn’t do. Monday, today, was his day to shine. His test of skill, his ability to kill. He wasn’t entirely nervous, but the adrenaline that pumped through his veins at the thought made it impossible to catch a few more precious minutes of rest. He glared at the far wall, lying in bed for a moment out of sheer stubbornness, but then hoisted himself up. Thigh muscles tensed as his feet hit the cool floor, a shiver worming it’s way up his spine before Ray grabbed a towel and a set of baseball-branded sanitary products, not bothering to pull a shirt over his bare chest before sauntering out into the corridor, heading towards the open showers.

On his way there, he came across the team’s doctor, looking flustered as her hands patted through her clothing. She was already suited up in battle gear, minus her weaponry, which only reinforced the gravity of the situation to Ray.

‘Hey, uh...’ God, what was her name again?

‘Lindsay,’ she cut in, the clip of her voice softening as she smiled at him. ‘You’ve only been here a week, I am not surprised you’ve forgotten my name. No doubt you’ve forgotten most others.’

The soft Texan accent made Ray self-conscious of his broad New Yorker drawl as he rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking to the floor.

‘Ah, yeah, sorry Doc. You alright there, though?’

‘I’m fine,’ she replied, hands drawing away from her clothing, clutching together behind her back. ‘Are you feeling ready for today’s match?’ Her eyes glinted mischievously behind her spectacles. Ray nodded in reply, his jaw tightening, reminding himself why exactly he was there.

So, the vaguely surprised look that passed across Lindsay’s face wasn’t missed by him as he kept his gaze trained on her.

‘What, you don’t think I can do it?’ He rolled his eyes as her face cleared, carefully blank.

‘No. I know you can do it, Ray.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘However, you’ll be on your own for the most part. We don’t... ‘ she sighed. ‘We are not yet a seamless team.’

‘Right,’ Ray shrugged, adjusting the towel that was flung over his shoulder. ‘Well, Lindsay, I gotta get to the showers. See you later.’ He brushed past her, pride wounded even if the medic had said it wasn’t her unwillingness to believe in him. Once he was in the showers the negative thoughts washed away with the lukewarm water, the shower giving him ample time to clean himself thoroughly, mind dwelling on the impending fight.

He’d grown accustomed to his weapons, all except his metal store-bought bat were company-issued, so he figured that wouldn’t be so difficult. His mind lingered on the fact that moving targets would be harder to hit, but by reason then he would be too. He knew he was the fastest of the team, that his objective was to provide intel to the team of the enemies positions and defences. His qualm wasn’t with that. The disquiet that sat in his gut wasn’t receding, but he had no clear idea of why it was there in the first place.

Once he finished with his shower, he hurried back to his room, pulling on his uniform, if it could be called that, before going through his routine stretches. His face flushed as his muscles warmed and loosened up, the room becoming sticky with humidity so that once he was finished he felt as though he needed another shower. He kept his eye on the clock though, and once he saw that he had half an hour left for breakfast, he jogged to the mess hall.

Michael was already there, shovelling bacon in his mouth like there was no tomorrow. Sitting next to the burly man was Geoff, a bottle of whiskey placed with meaning next to his plate, piled with toast and scrambled eggs. Gavin sat alone on the opposite side of the room, legs crossed and his raised foot bouncing as he poured over a book. Ryan, Jack and Lindsay were huddled together, talking in hushed voices that Ray tried to ignore when Ryan stared pointedly at him.

Michael waved him over, gesturing to the breakfast buffet, where there was an enormous pot of pure black coffee, and next to it, neon-coloured cans of energy drink. Ray forwent the coffee in favour of the energy drinks, picking up two of the chilled cans, piling his plate with as much food as he could. As he went to sit with Michael, Pyro’s head popped out from beneath the table, a child’s drawing held up for the newbie to see with a pleased muffled chirrup. Ray nodded, taking the drawing.

‘It’s real nice, Pyro.’ He muttered, sitting by Michael, letting out a grunt when the man nudged his ribs.

‘Good to see you up and ready, Ray!’ The New Jerseyan grinned. Geoff raised his eyes, offered a nod, and went back to slowly picking at his food, taking occasional swigs of his whiskey.

‘Yeah, well, you didn’t give me much choice, did you?’ He said in return, quickly digging into his food when he heard the intake of breath next to him. He didn’t need an earful from the brash hothead, not when his palms were slick with sweat and nerves were hammering away in his ears.

He’d almost finished guzzling a can of BONK!, when an authoritative male voice sounded over the speakers; ‘All players to Respawn. Be ready in five.’

He stood, waiting as the others trailed out of the mess hall, all engaged in their own animated conversations. Ray walked alongside Pyro when they scrambled out from under the table. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his pants, his heart hammering against his ribs in nerves as the team poured out of the base, into the warm Texan sun, before they all trooped over to a non-descript building settled a few feet away from the main base, right on the edge of the large overhang that shielded the desert gully below. This was the entrance to the Respawn system, somewhere Ray had not yet set foot, and as Kerry pushed the door open, and the biting chill of an air conditioned room brushed over his face, Ray swallowed thickly, following behind Michael as they entered one by one.

Once they were all inside, crammed into a five by five room, machinery rattled to life, deep within the bowels of the building, and with a sudden jerk, they began the descent.


End file.
